Lost
by danang1970
Summary: Five times the A-Team lost their pilot.
1. Lost on base

Face glared at BA. "This is all your fault."

Not intimidated in the slightest, the larger man glared right back. "Stop trying to lay that on me. How was I supposed to know he'd flip out like that?"

Face and BA had been scouring the base for their new pilot for nearly an hour now. Things had been perfectly fine just 56 minutes ago. Face had been enjoying a late breakfast after rolling out of a lovely redhead's bed, joined by Murdock and BA. Hannibal was in talks with General Morrison to get the ball rolling, circumventing as much red tape as possible of course, to get their new team official and operational. BA had been writing to his mom and Murdock was reading 'My Friend Flicka' which had, under circumstances Face didn't want to dwell on too much, been left in a drawer in their new shared sleeping quarters.

Things were fine. Then, halfway through Face's second serving of eggs (that redhead had STAMINA), Murdock started to get restless.

_Tap tap tap. Tappa tappa tap tap taptap. Tap tap TAPTAPTAP. Tappa tap tap tap taptap. Tap tap t-_

"Hey!"

Murdock looked up, confused by BA's outburst. Around his third piece of toast (stamina!), Face winced. The three of them had only known each other for a few days, but it was already painfully clear that there was going to be friction between the Captain and Sergeant. Friction to which, unfortunately, Murdock seemed completely oblivious.

"What?" he asked with genuine innocence. _Tappa tap tap taptap. TAP. Tap tap._

"You're tapping," glowered BA.

Murdock looked at his hand to check. It was true. "Oh." He carefully flattened the palm of the offending hand onto the table, stilling its erratic movements. "Sorry."

Both men went back to their tasks. Face slurped his coffee and tried to decide if the delicious bacon on his plate would be worth the extra laps he'd have to do to work it off.

_Ting. Ting ting. Vmmmmmmmmb, ting ting ting._

"Will you knock it off?"

This time, BA's shout was loud enough to nearly startle Murdock off his chair. Only impressively quick reflexes stopped him from pitching over as he instinctively jerked away. Bracing his feet firmly on the floor to ensure his chair wouldn't try anything funny, Murdock looked around. Seeing no other possible target for BA's rage, he addressed the other man in bewilderment. "What?"

"You're shaking your leg, man," BA told him sternly. "Whole table's moving. Face's breakfast damn near vibrated away."

"Oh," said Murdock again, sounding a little embarrassed. He looked at Face, who was mopping up a few splatters of spilled coffee. "Sorry."

Face shrugged, swallowing the last of his bacon (Delicious bacon always won against laps. Always). "Don't worry about it."

BA wasn't so tolerant. "Face, can you call the hospital and get 'em to send a straightjacket for this crazy fool so he stops bouncing everywhere? Maybe a gag too; stop him from running his mouth off about every damn thing that comes into his head?"

That was unnecessary, thought Face with a frown. Sure, Murdock had been a little… high maintenance in the energy department, but come on. The guy just got out of a mental institution. He'd actually been pretty good this morning, only cutting his own toast into animal shapes instead of trying to do it to everyone's, and drinking orange juice without overtly checking for bugs (computer bugs, not literal bugs. Apparently Murdock thought that the government was trying to implant microchips into everyone to monitor their whereabouts). He'd settled in to read and been relatively quiet. Face knew BA was stressed, wondering whether or not his reinstatement into the Army would get through, but he didn't need to attack Murdock for (pretty much) no reason.

Murdock had gone a bit pale. "I'm... Sorry." He fiddled with his book, long fingers flicking at the worn, dog-eared cover. He opened his mouth as if to say something else but turned it into a stuttered cough instead. Before Face or BA could react, he'd muttered an excuse and all but bolted for the door.

That wouldn't have been worrying in itself, but when Face and BA had arrived back at their barracks ten minutes later, there was no Murdock. Face had had a look around, wanting to check that Murdock was okay (who knew what could trigger a mental patient – sorry, EX-mental patient – to snap?), but couldn't find his new teammate anywhere. Annoyed that his day off was turning into a babysitting drama, Face demanded that Bosco assist in the search because, as he'd said 13 times in the past hour, "This is all your fault."

So that's where they were. Crisscrossing the base like idiots because they couldn't find a fully-grown man who, for all BA and Face knew, had gone off to climb a tree or cuddle a B-52 or hell, meet a girl and probably didn't care about being found one way or another. BA scowled as he followed Face down a small passage between a couple of main buildings. This wasn't hide and seek and it wasn't a damn daycare either. Murdock was an adult. Hell, he was a Ranger. They were saying he could handle active service, then he could handle being alone for a couple of hour-

Wait. What was that?

"Hey Faceman, hold up."

Face skidded to a halt, nostrils flaring as he definitely didn't puff because he'd barely been strolling and certainly hadn't been having a mental race with BA to appease his male ego in the presence of the larger man. "What's," clearing the throat, not panting at all, "What's up?"

BA pointed. Face turned, did a double-take, and groaned. "Murdock," he called, walking over. "What are you doing?"

The man in question looked down at them. He was sitting casually, legs swinging and knocking occasionally on the concrete behind him. He seemed completely relaxed, belying the fact that he was three stories up, on the armoury roof.

"Hey, Faceman," drawled Murdock. "Bosco." He nodded in acknowledgement, tipping an imaginary hat.

"We've been looking all over for you," shouted BA accusingly. "What you doing up there?"

"Just needed to breathe for a bit, that's all gents," replied Murdock in an inexplicable British accent, unfazed by BA's temper. "Air gets a bit too thick down there, what what? Clogs up inside your nostrils, can't travel to the brain, you see."

"Man, you crazy!" yelled Bosco. "Sitting on top of buildings ain't gonna make your brain work. Ain't nothing gonna make your brain work!"

"BA, that's not helping," said Face through gritted teeth.

Murdock kicked his legs twice before pulling himself up, now standing on the slightly raised ledge. As Face watched in growing horror and BA glared, he closed his eyes and rocked back and forth on his heels, tipping his head back towards the mid-morning sun. Arms held out from his sides, he looked peaceful, a half-smile pulling at his lips. It was almost like he was meditating. Each sway tipped him alarmingly forwards over the three-storey drop.

"Murdock," called Face, hands instinctively reaching up as if they could push Murdock back through will alone. "Can you stop that, man? Can you step back a bit?"

He didn't. In fact, opening his eyes, Murdock leaned further forward, peering down at the men on the ground with a faintly accusatory stare. "Hannibal said no more."

"What?" barked BA, irritated.

It took Face a second to understand. "Fuck." He raised his voice. "Murdock, no. Hannibal was right. BA wasn't serious. You're not going back to the hospital."

Murdock's expression didn't waver. "Hannibal said no more shots. No more tranqs, jackets or locks. He promised."

BA was dumbfounded. He could only stare as Face tried to placate the other man, who'd started to shift agitatedly on the spot, all traces of the relaxation he'd been exuding only seconds before disappearing.

"He was telling the truth, Murdock," said Face, unable to keep the anxiety from his tone. "I swear. No more of that stuff. BA was just mad. He didn't mean it."

From this far away, the men on the ground couldn't see the movement of Murdock's eyes, but it was clear that his next question was directed at BA. "Is that true?"

Face kicked Bosco's ankle when the big man failed to respond. BA huffed. "Yes, cra- Murdock," he said with exaggerated patience. Face resisted the urge to kick him again. "I was mad. I'm not gonna really sic the docs on you." He shot Face a 'There, are you happy now?' glare.

Murdock's voice had a note of suspicion. "No more shocks?"

BA frowned. "No more…? What? Aw hell no, what do you think this is? Come on, man. Don't even talk about that medieval shit." He sounded offended.

"Lots of people do it," countered Murdock. Face wanted to say that he actually didn't think ECT was that common anymore, but thankfully bit his tongue just in time. In Murdock's experiences, lots of people probably _did_ perform and endorse electroshock. How long did Hannibal say he'd been in that place in Mexico, again?

"Well I ain't lots of people," snapped BA. "I'm not gonna lie, crazy." _Oh God_, thought Face, bracing himself. "I don't like you. You nearly killed me! And you're annoying. Like, really annoying. But I ain't gonna throw you back in that hospital. I mean, shit, man. I wouldn't really tranq someone, come on."

Murdock shifted warily. "You promise?"

BA rolled his eyes and enunciated clearly. "Yes, I promise. I will not put you back in the hospital or do any of the messed up shit they did to you in there, alright? And I won't let anyone else do it, either." He crossed his massive arms over the boulder of his chest, emphasizing the point.

"We're not gonna let anything like that happen again, buddy," assured Face. "None of us. Can you come down – we'll talk about it?"

With a last measuring look, Murdock took a step backwards. Face let out a deep sigh. "Okay. Hang on." In a blink, he'd scampered out of sight towards the access door that led to the stairs out of the building.

Face ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

BA nodded. "Yeah."

A minute later, there was a creak from the side of the building as the fire escape door opened. Murdock trotted towards them, wiping his palms on his jeans. He gave the others a slightly guarded half smile. "Hey."

"Hey." BA looked uncomfortable. "Look, man. I didn't mean to, you know. Sometimes I just say stuff. It don't mean anything."

Murdock shrugged. "That's okay." He glanced at Face, then back to BA. "Loxapine."

BA blinked. "What?"

Murdock looked faintly apologetic, embarrassed. "Loxapine. It's part of my pharmacopeia. Makes me kinda twitchy." BA looked aghast. "It should settle down if I get the dose right, but…"

Face and BA didn't know what to say. Murdock shrugged again. "Anyway." He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket, tugging it up and down again absently.

After some long, awkward seconds, Face cleared his throat. "So… Does that mean you can't play foosball?"

Murdock stared. "Que?"

"Foosball. You know, with the…?" Face mimed spinning a bar to make a shot. Murdock nodded, still confused. "Yeah. Well I managed to get us a table. Guy in requisitions here owes me a favour."

"Cool!" Murdock's face split into a wide smile. He turned to BA. "Do you play?"

BA was still trying to keep up with Murdock's mercurial moodswings, but he managed a scowl. "Of course I play, fool."

"Heh heh," giggled Murdock. "Foolsball."

BA groaned. _Maybe I can tie the fool up in his bedsheet, _he thought._ Didn't say nothing about bedsheets…_


	2. Lost in conversation

Murdock stormed loudly into the team's shared house in their current station in Bolivia, stomping his feet and kicking Face's new bag of cosmetics (sorry, "grooming products") out of the way. With a theatrical sigh, he threw a manila folder onto the coffee table and flopped onto the sofa next to BA. Without a word to anyone, he settled in, crossing his arms and glaring at the TV.

In the adjacent kitchen, Face and Hannibal exchanged a glance. After the kind of silent conversion-turned-battle-of-wills that they had so often, and that Face was loathe to admit he lost much more often than not, the Lieutenant headed to the living room and addressed the pilot.

"What's wrong, Murdock?"

It was clear the Captain had been waiting to be asked.

"It's these damn psych evals!" he exploded. BA sighed and turned off the TV. He was never going to get to watch the game in peace now, not with Murdock off on a tangent. "These doctors, they're so short-sighted. They have no appreciation for anything outside of their perfect, numbered, coloured in the lines categorisation of the world. No, god forbid they encounter a little creativity, a little pizzazz. If it's not in their manual under 'Accepted responses' then it must be loony tunes."

He accepted the beer Face brought over for him and cracked it open, taking a long swig. Hannibal and Face settled into the chairs on either side of the sofa, Face tossing a can to BA.

"You didn't go to your appointment with your clothes on upside-down again, did you?" asked Face. "I mean, I get the appeal of sweaterpants, but some people just aren't ready for that kind of thing."

Murdock shook his head. "Naw, it wasn't like that this time, Faceman." He hit the armrest of the couch in frustration. "Dammit, sometimes I wish I could just go in there and lie. Give them all the textbook answers that'll make them break out the Sane stamp and stop trying to root around inside my head like they're looking for brainlice. I know what they want to hear, I just can't give it to them."

"Why not?" BA found himself asking. "You ain't dumb. I've seen you going to these quacks for two years now and hell, I think _I _know more than some of them by now." Murdock gave him a quick, rueful smile. "Why don't you just spin up some bullshit so they'll leave you alone?"

"It's not that simple, BA," Face answered for Murdock, who didn't seem to mind. "He can't just go from crazy, no offense, to sane in a week. They'd know something was up."

"No offense taken," said Murdock. "And it's not just that. I do need these doctors; the ones that know what they're doing, anyway. My meds, therapy, I get that we're not all just in this for the free lollipops. I'm just sick of being told I'm _wrong_ when I don't see the world exactly the way they think I should."

Hannibal frowned. "Have you been having troubles, Captain?" There was no need for the euphemistic phrasing, really. Murdock was never fazed by questions about his mental state: Answering to torrents of faceless doctors who took note of his every intimate emotional, mental and physical state had desensitised him to that kind of embarrassment long ago. Plus, the team had seen the uglier side of Murdock's mental condition(s) before. They'd soothed him through nightmares, coaxed him out of corners and helped him separate reality from the cruel tricks his brain played on him more times than they could count. It was just part of life now, like Hannibal's cigar smoke, BA's temper or Face's aforementioned plethora of moisturisers. The team didn't have secrets. They didn't see the need to.

So Murdock, and Face and BA, understood what Hannibal was really asking when he referred to ambiguous "troubles".

Murdock shook his head. "No, Hannibal. I ain't seeing things except what's really there, cross my heart. It's more about what I'm _not_ seeing."

At the blank looks he received, Murdock sighed and leaned forward, flipping open the manila folder he'd dumped on the coffee table. "There. Look at that. What do you guys see?"

Face tilted his head. "I don't know. It's... two chicks making out."

BA scoffed. "Yeah, you would see that."

"What do you see?" countered the blond.

"Butterfly," was the slightly smug answer.

Murdock turned to his commander. "Hannibal?"

Hannibal studied the paper. "Aerial view of an offshore Marine base." The others groaned. "What? That's what I see."

The Captain gestured emphatically to the paper, nearly spilling his beer and looking agitated. "There, you see? All of you see something in that. You got it right," he informed BA. "Apparently most people see a butterfly. Most SANE people, anyway."

"Well what did you see?" asked Face. "I mean, it's an ink blot. They can't say you saw something _wrong_, can they? Isn't it all about interpretation?"

"Yeah, if there's something to interpret," Murdock replied, throwing himself back into the couch cushions dejectedly. "What about if you can't see anything? I don't get it. All I see is ink."

Face frowned. "Well, yeah, but what about the shapes the ink makes? Doesn't it remind you of something?"

"That's just what they say!" Murdock drained the rest of his beer in two huge swallows. "Surely I must see a cow or a plant or maybe an airplane! You like airplanes, don't you Mr Murdock?" He snorted in disgust, then burped and coughed. "It's nothing. I've done these stupid tests a million times and I've never seen anything except a blob of ink."

BA rifled through the rest of the folder. It was a collection of ink blots, word association tests, number games, fill-in-the-blanks. At a glance, most of the questions looked like they were designed for children under ten. BA didn't know how his friend could stand to go through this every couple of weeks. "Here," he said, pulling out a different ink picture. "What about this one?"

"Ooh!" said Face excitedly, eager to share the latest undoubtedly-carnal image he'd found in the blot. BA shushed him. Hannibal grinned into his beer.

Murdock barely glanced at the paper. "Black blobs on white. That's all it is."

"Okay." BA pointed to one of the squiggles. "I see a flower pot. See, here's where the pot rounds out?"

"I can see that," agreed Hannibal. He leaned across Murdock and traced a couple of blotches with his finger. "And those are the flower stems, right? Up there are the bulbs?" BA nodded.

"Oh yeah!" Face chimed in. "They're kind of like tulips, right?"

Murdock stared. "You lost me. Do you seriously see all that?"

"Yes, son," said Hannibal gently. "Do you see it, if we point it out to you?"

"Kind of." Murdock sounded dejected. "But not really, and I definitely wouldn't have seen it on my own. Aw, you guys suck! I've been doing these tests practically my whole life, and you come along and ace them. That's not fair. Face, get me another beer. I have sorrows to drown."

BA chuckled. "It's not that bad, Crazy," he said reassuringly as Face trotted off to the fridge. "There's worse tests you could get wrong. You could tell them you like dressing up in your momma's clothes or you can't remember which side of the war you're on."

"There's a war on?" Murdock deadpanned predictably. "And I'll have you know that that evening gown brings out the warmth in my skin. Autumnal tones really make my eyes pop." He nodded in thanks as Face brought over a beer.

"It's true," Hannibal agreed. "I thought you looked particularly glowing that night, Captain, but I didn't want to say anything."

"Oh great," groused BA. "Now any time I see one of these ink things, I'm gonna think about this crazy fool in a dress. That's real great, Hannibal. Thanks."

"Ooh!" It was Face again. "I didn't tell you guys what I saw in this picture. Check it out. I can't believe they use this for psych tests. It's so rude. Look." He reached forward and pulled the picture over.

"You're right, BA," observed Murdock. "It could be worse. I could have Face's brain. Can you imagine that? My obsessions and his perversions."

Hannibal pondered that. "No one would be safe."

"You'd get really chafed," supplied Face helpfully, gesturing in the direction of Murdock's pants.

"Oh, nice. That's real classy, Faceman."

"I'm a prince. Now pay attention, flyboy. I wanna show you how to read this inkblot so you can see what she's doing with that flower."


	3. Lost in the field

"Where the hell is that damn chopper?" Face groused angrily. His chest was heaving, skin and fatigues covered in sweat, dirt and splatters of blood (mostly not his own). Hannibal knew that his frustration was caused by equal parts awareness that their very small window was closing – if they weren't extracted in the next ten minutes, they would have to wait another 48 hours in unstable territory for the next flyby – and yearning for a shower. If there was anything his Lieutenant hated more than tyrannical despots, it was feeling crusty.

Hannibal couldn't blame Face for being tetchy. Their intel for this one had been patchy from the start and what was supposed to be a simple three-day recon had gone balls up less than six hours in. Now they were almost out of the limited ammo they'd been supplied with, Face had taken a bullet graze to the forehead that had nearly given Hannibal a heart attack when he'd seen the spray of blood as the younger man's head snapped back, and BA was nursing a nasty knife wound to the thigh. All in all, they'd had more successful missions.

As if in response to Face complaint, the rhythmic beating of chopper blades cutting through the air suddenly filled the sky. Seconds later, a Chinook appeared above their small clearing, hovering awkwardly. Hannibal frowned as his initial relief gave way to unease. The chopper was unsteady, drifting too far left to attempt a clean descent through the gap in the trees. It was a narrow space, but he'd seen Murdock perform trickier extractions without missing a beat in his latest rendition of _Old Man River_ or whatever he'd had stuck in his head that day. This copter hovered for a few more seconds before deploying the hook ladders. Hannibal and Face secured BA, hindered by the injury to his leg, before hooking themselves in.

After they were jerkily raised to the Chinook, Hannibal beelined to the cockpit. As he'd suspected, his pilot was not seated behind the controls. Hannibal grabbed a headset and shouted to the unfamiliar Captain over the noise of the rotors.

"Where's Captain Murdock?"

The answering pause was just a little too long, to Hannibal's ears. "I was given orders to fly this extraction this morning, sir," the pilot eventually replied. "Jason Stewart, Captain."

Hannibal ignored the introduction. Rude, but he'd chasten himself for bad manners later. "What happened to our pilot? We were expecting Captain Murdock. Were his orders changed?" Murdock would never miss an extraction. He was, as they all were, fiercely protective of his team. He'd never trust anyone else to fly them out if he could help it.

Jason Stewart, Captain, was definitely shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Hannibal didn't like this at all. "I don't know about Captain Murdock's orders, sir. I was just told to fly you out."

This was pointless. Kid had obviously been told to keep his mouth shut. Hannibal took off the headset and made his way back to Face and BA. He'd have to ask Russ for the real info when they got back to base. A knot of tension clenched Hannibal's stomach. He didn't like this one bit.

* * *

><p>As with everything else in the past 72 hours, the meeting with General Morrison went badly.<p>

"You're not fucking serious," was Face's elegant summation of Hannibal's feelings on the subject. He made no move to reprimand his Lieutenant for directing such language at a superior officer. Russ didn't look like he expected it.

"Now, Peck," the General said in an even tone, "I know this probably comes as quite a shock, particularly as you've only just returned. I think we should discuss this after you've all been looked over by Medical and had a chance to get some food and rest."

"I'll give YOU some food and rest," barked BA. He waved his fists demonstratively. "I'll give you FOOD," left fist, and "REST," right fist. If the situation wasn't so serious, Hannibal would have laughed. His Sergeant was a living cartoon.

"With all due respect, Russ," and Hannibal was biting his tongue to prevent himself from clarifying exactly how little respect he thought that was right now, "none of us are going to get any sleep until we've got our pilot back. Now, you know me well enough by now. We're either going to do this with your signature or without it."

"It's better to ask forgiveness that permission, right Smith?" grumbled Morrison, but you could tell his heart wasn't in it.

"At this stage, I don't think I'd be asking forgiveness." Hannibal's eyes were steel.

Three days. Murdock had been missing for three days. He'd never returned to base after dropping them off and Russ had done little more than sit around with his thumb up his ass since then. Hannibal knew that was uncharitable but he didn't care.

"Hannibal," Russ's eyes were pained and, god damn him, filled with sympathy. "Please." He glanced at Face and BA. It went without saying that he would have preferred to talk to the Colonel in private, just like it went without saying that Hannibal would never have allowed that. "I know this is hard to hear. Murdock's chopper was shot down in hot territory. We haven't had any contact from him since then. The chopper's location equipment is down and you know what that means, Hannibal." He did. It meant that in all probability, there wasn't enough of a chopper left to salvage. Russ sighed. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. I truly am. But I will not risk my best Alpha unit on a rash suicide mission to retrieve a dead body."

Hannibal reacted fast. "BA." At the stern command, the Sergeant lowered his fists and sat back down. Another split second and he would have knocked Morrison out – if the General's head had still been attached to his body after the punch. A quick glance told Hannibal that Face was keeping a lid on his control, but only just. The blond's body quivered with tension and his jaw was clenched.

"I'm not debating this with you, Russ," snapped Hannibal. "If you won't give us the intel on where Murdock went down, we'll fly all routes to our dropoff and back again until we find it. Murdock's a popular young man. I'm sure we won't have any trouble finding a flyboy to do the run for us."

General Morrison held Hannibal's gaze for a moment, then rubbed his hand over his eyes like he'd been physically scorched by the intensity he found there. "You have 24 hours," he said finally. "After that, you report back here and I'll give you details regarding the compassionate leave and counselling services available to you."

"Ain't no need for compassion," growled BA. "Man's not dead until we find a body. And even then, I don't want no sympathy from _you_."

The way Hannibal closed Morrison's office door on the way out was only just short of a slam.

Face made it fifteen yards across camp before doubling over and violently throwing up. Hannibal and BA waited, a hand on each shoulder as Face heaved up the rations he'd consumed that morning. When he was done, they pulled the Lieutenant to his feet and the three men continued to the flight line without a word.

Hannibal had been right: All it took was the suggestion that Murdock was in trouble (something the other pilots had suspected despite the lack of official info), and they were inundated with offers of assistance. Hannibal chose Captain Kelley, a man he knew Murdock had grown close to due to their shared Southern backgrounds and love of terrible knock knock jokes. The Colonel wanted everyone to have the same objective in this. It wasn't just another mission. He could tell by the hardness in Captain Kelley's eyes that he wouldn't let them down.

It took the team two hours to get clearance for a chopper, load up their gear and plot a course based on the intel Morrison had reluctantly provided. Once in the air, no one spoke. BA hadn't even taken his customary pre-flight Ativan but he'd boarded the copter without a word. Face was pale but focused, staring hard at the canopy of trees for any sign of a crash. Either through divine intervention or blind luck, they encountered no enemy fire.

"There," said Face suddenly, pointing. "You see it, Kelley?"

"I see it," confirmed their pilot, cautiously flying in lower. There was a barely-perceptible break in the trees just east of them. Just the size a Chinook would make if it crashed through the canopy. As they hovered overhead, Hannibal peering through the branches with his binoculars, he saw it: A glint of sunlight reflected off glass. A glance at the map confirmed their position. This was it.

They were lowered to the ground both too slowly and far too quickly for Hannibal's liking. He was never one to shy away from the realities of his life with the Army, but that didn't mean his stomach wasn't doing somersaults at the thought of what he was about to find. Russ had said it tactlessly, but he was right. This was probably going to end up being a mission to retrieve a body. He had to try, though. He had to know and, if they were about to learn the worst, then at least he could take his boy home one last time and give him a proper farewell.

The sight that greeted the three men as they touched down in the crash-carved clearing was an ugly one. It was Murdock's chopper – or at least, it had been. The body of the aircraft had all but completely disintegrated. The parts that were recognisable were violently scattered over an area wider than Hannibal could make out through the trees. The cockpit and front rotor were a mess of twisted, warped metal. The entire thing had shattered on impact.

Hannibal heard Face swallow thickly before making his way towards what remained of the cockpit. Limping heavily on his bad leg, BA followed. The three of them performed a cursory check of the wreckage for booby traps before making their way inside through the gaping hole where the body of the craft used to be.

Once inside, Face froze. He was only a few feet from the pilot's chair. There was an arm dangling over the side.

BA pushed past Face and made his way to into the cockpit proper. The pilot (_Murdock_) was crushed between the flight controls and the door, where the chopper had crumpled like a tin can on impact. He still had his flight helmet on. Barely noticing that Hannibal and Face had squeezed in behind him, BA reached forward and, ignoring the way his hands were shaking, pulled the helmet off.

Face let out a low moan. It was Murdock. Blood matted the side of his head and the tip of his swollen tongue protruded from cracked lips. His eyes were slightly open, glazed and unfocused. Hannibal looked away, teeth gritted.

"Damn it," swore BA harshly. "Damn it!" He slammed his massive fist into the useless controls, shuddering the wreckage and dislodging broken glass from the windshield with a tinkling crash.

Murdock coughed.

"Jesus!" BA jumped backwards in a way that would have been hilarious in any other circumstance.

"Holy fuck." Face darted forward, shoving the larger man out of the way to get a clear look at Murdock. The pilot was wheezing, skin pale and bloody but he was breathing. He was alive.

Hannibal radioed Kelley to tell him they had an injured man and needed to get back to base yesterday, ignoring BA's continued swearing about "damn crazy, giving me a heart attack, pulling some _Se7en_ kinda bullshit…". Face wet a bandage with water from his canteen and held it to Murdock's lips with one hand, gripping the Captain's arm tightly with the other.

Murdock's painful, dry lips moved. Face pulled the sopping bandage back instantly. "What was that, buddy?" His voice was trembling and his face was wet. BA leaned forward too, fumbling forwards and putting an awkward hand on Murdock's knee. The warmth reassured him that this was real.

Murdock coughed again then squinted up at his teammates. "I knew you'd find me." With a relaxed sigh, he let himself pass out again. The team had come for him. Everything was going to be okay.


	4. Lost inside

BA hated these days.

Days like this made him feel Useless and Uncomfortable with capital "U"s. It would be better, no question, if Murdock just had some asshole grunts to deal with: One-dimensional bullies that BA could easily menace with a well-timed growl and crack of his mighty knuckles. If Murdock's problems were a black eye or bruises, it would be easy. Patch him up and send him on his way with a beer and a slap on the back. (Though the last time BA had tried to do that, he'd nearly sent the pilot crashing through a wall. Still needed to work on that middle ground between "not touching" and "100% manpower".)

This, he couldn't deal with. Maybe he could punch Murdock in the head since that's where the problem was, but Hannibal had always had very strong opinions about that when BA was chasing Murdock all over camp for stealing his tools, and he had the feeling that the Boss's views wouldn't change just because the motivation for punching did. Hannibal didn't seem to think there was such a thing as altruistic violence, which BA thought was stupid, both for someone who was in the Army, and someone who had to deal with Murdock on a daily basis.

So punching was out. Also shaking, throttling, squeezing, threatening and general menacing (growls, glares, tightened grips on heavy objects, etcetera). Hannibal had made a chart and everything. That really didn't leave BA a lot to work with. Hence the aforementioned hating of these days, because they inevitably led to him sitting on a chair or cot in the corner, crossing his arms so he wouldn't wring his hands like a helpless damsel. He'd stay silent and try to keep his awkward shifting to a minimum, making himself useful by bringing them all food and water when they needed it. It wasn't much and he hated that, but it was all he could do. And if anyone suggested that he leave, then he really WOULD get punchy.

This was a bad one. It was only day two, but BA had experience. He could tell. Murdock's new doctor was trying to prove his usefulness (and validate his requests for an increased paycheque, no doubt) by reassessing, rediagnosing and represcribing. It was the last one that was causing the problems.

Across the room from where BA sat in his trusty Fretting Chair (as Face had christened it years ago, with complete disregard for his immediate wellbeing as BA's eye started twitching), Face and Hannibal played out their well-practiced dance. In almost rhythmic surges, they reached forward to hold Murdock down (Hannibal at the legs, Face at the arms) as the Captain bucked and thrashed, flailing against his friends with animalistic ferocity. He'd been known to resort to biting in these phases so Face was careful to keep an eye on his teeth. It went without saying that the three of them never used restraints on Murdock, no matter how bad it got. He wasn't himself during these episodes, and sometimes (like now) he seemed feral, barely human, but just because Murdock had forgotten who he was didn't mean the rest of the team had. They'd never chain him down like a rabid dog.

Hence the dance. Hannibal and Face would hold him down for as long as necessary, ignoring their own fatigue and burning muscles. Invariably, Murdock would tire himself out and settle down once more. Of course, "settle" was a relative term. It only meant that he was no longer trying to bolt from the room or attack anyone within arm's reach. He still twisted his body on the bed, moaned, muttered, sobbed and spat. The others stepped in if it looked like he was doing damage to himself, tugging at his hair or raking his fingernails down his face, but otherwise there wasn't much they could do.

Didn't stop Face from trying, though. BA couldn't see the point: It must be discouraging to talk to someone who only acknowledged your presence when they were trying to claw your eyes out. Murdock wasn't there. He was just a collection of symptoms right now, the worst symptoms, and BA didn't see any benefit in talking to those symptoms like they could understand him. You didn't talk to a tumour like it was a baby in someone's stomach. It wasn't human and it wasn't supposed to be there. You didn't dignify its presence by trying to engage it.

Face talked to it. In between the rages and fits, when Murdock was quieter, he'd gently stroke the pilot's sweaty forehead and talk. He'd crap on about anything: Girls, weather, missions, training, girls, sports, TV shows, food, girls, current events, girls… BA snorted. It was a predictable look into Face's priorities when he was doing this, talking up a stream of consciousness in a soothing lilt. It sometimes made Bosco wonder whether Face was a little crazy too. Which was worse, someone who couldn't hear what was going on around them, or someone who wouldn't stop trying to make them listen?

Hannibal would sometimes take over, when Face's body would finally send him signals he couldn't ignore (sometimes in the form of literally falling asleep mid-sentence) and the Lieutenant would reluctantly move to his own bed. Hannibal's style was different: The calming lilt was the same, but his words were much more direct. He addressed Murdock (making the same mistake as Face in BA's mind), telling him he was stronger than this, that what he was feeling would pass, that they were here with him.

Which, again, was bullshit as far as BA was concerned. Physically holding the guy's hand didn't mean they were with him. Hell, Murdock wasn't even in the room with them. Murdock would be appalled at this; he always was, afterwards. Murdock didn't want to hurt his friends or himself. It wasn't him that gnashed and kicked and clawed at them all, or tried to punch through windows and slash up his arms. He wasn't the one piloting anymore. BA didn't know where he was, but he was willing to bet that it wasn't anywhere good. The team could pat his hand and keep him on the bed all they wanted, but they weren't really _with_ him. He was fighting that monster on his own, trying to regain the balance that would tip his mental equilibrium back in his favour and give him control again, if only temporarily.

Murdock would regain control, BA knew. He always did. Hannibal was right about that: Murdock WAS strong and this WOULD pass. It wouldn't go away, would probably never go away completely, but that was for Murdock to reconcile. BA just knew that eventually, even if it took several more hellish, draining, sweat-and-tears days and nights, his friend would come back to them. Until then, Bosco would wait.


	5. Lost

Murdock was clinging so tight that a button popped off Face's shirt. "Please, Facey," he begged, voice cracking.

"I'm sorry." The two most empty, pathetic, inadequate words in the English language. Face wanted to punch himself. He wasn't sure why Murdock didn't.

"Please," again. Face felt a seam tear at his shoulder. He brought his hands up to Murdock's wrists, not pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either. Not pulling him away from the doctor who had his hand, gentle but firm, around Murdock's upper arm. Drawing him back. Two orderlies stood a respectful distance behind them, watching closely but not intruding.

"Captain." Hannibal's voice was a soft rumble, softer than Face could ever remember hearing it. "You have to go with them."

Murdock shook his head wildly, the bags under his eyes making them seem all the more manic as they cast desperately around the scene, looking for a friend. "No. NO. Hannibal, you promised me. Remember?" His hands, fisted in Face's shirt, were shaking. Face could feel the tremors through whole body. "After Mexico, you promised. No more hospitals, remember? I remember. You can't do this. Please."

Hannibal didn't answer. Face wasn't sure if it was because he didn't think it was worth arguing with Murdock in this state, or because he couldn't think or anything to say.

"Bosco." Murdock's eyes were growing red now. He set his jaw against it, but that only served to emphasise how much weight he'd lost as his cheekbones slashed shadows down his cheeks. "Come on, big guy. I know you really love me, deep deep down." At a look from the doctor, the orderlies moved towards them. "Don't let them do this." Face's grip on Murdock's wrists was replaced and he was pulled away. The shoulder seam was torn beyond repair now but Face barely noticed.

Murdock bent and twisted, not longer reaching for Face (and Face wouldn't admit until hours later, when a bottle of Jack eroded through the wall keeping his tears at bay, how much that hurt). He was just struggling to get away. His too-thin body jerked and scrabbled pathetically. A truly airborne Ranger who could incapacitate a dozen men in less than ten minutes on a good day was reduced to pulling ineffectively as the orderlies waited for him to tire himself out.

"Come on, Mr Murdock," said the doctor quietly. "It's time to check in."

"_Captain_." Murdock's retort was for the doctor, but it was Hannibal his red eyes were focussed on as he spat the word like a curse. "Captain Murdock."

It was as if the doctor's words had turned something inside him. He stopped struggling, fists still clenched as he regarded the men who he thought would always be his team.

"You promised." It would have sounded trite and childish, but Murdock's tone was anything but. It was filled with anger. He said it as a statement of fact, Exhibits A through Z of their betrayal. It was the sanest they had heard him sound in weeks. He shook his head in disgust and, leaning forward as much as he could, spat on the ground. Face's heart broke and fell into his stomach in shards.

Then Murdock collapsed. The orderlies, taken by surprise, barely caught him before he cracked his head on the cement. BA and Face started forward, thinking Murdock had fainted. But as the orderlies turned, they saw that the other man's eyes were still open, half-lidded and staring blankly at the ground. Murdock hadn't passed out. He'd given up. Passive resistance. He knew it wasn't worth fighting anymore.

This is what they had wanted (wasn't it?), what they'd all agreed was best for Murdock (and for them, because you couldn't be on the run with someone who cared more about feeding his imaginary dog than himself, or who didn't sleep for days because people who weren't there were singing too loudly. Right?). This was the best they could hope for: Murdock would get the treatment he needed and that they'd proven to be woefully ill-equipped to provide, and an insanity defence would be his best chance at getting a reduced sentence. They would keep an eye on him, make sure his treatment was humane and effective. They weren't abandoning him. This wasn't the end.

Watching Murdock be dragged through the doors of the hospital, though, it certainly felt like it.


End file.
